I was a year and a half old when
Two, loud cracks punctured western confidence
Through air; my future head snapped back in grief.
There is no darkness to match the one in view.
Smoke is seen through the lens of habitual
Types of feelings not easily reconciled with
Processions of some one’s fear. There, in
Times of withered summer and early falls,
Fragrances repeat themselves; scents of grass,
And romance nurtured on the peak of a hill.
Each one of us is, at times, slow to move,
Slow to get justice for those who surround us.
Up there. A figure swathed in nothingness.
Can text be recalled and deconstructed
Later? A Moscow man’s ire may be involved.
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